


Some People Find Dodgy Dancing Sexy

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i went to the pub, and on the wall there was an advert for condoms.  the tag line was, <i>be prepared.  some people find dodgy dancing sexy.</i>  and i could think of no dodgier dancer than john watson himself.  so.  there is sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some People Find Dodgy Dancing Sexy

It's the first Christmas party that Sherlock's been to in quite a while, and he hasn't come willingly. They didn't used to invite him anyway, and he preferred it that way. But they've taken a liking to John, haven't they, and now it's _bring John_ in the texts and, "Good morning, John! I see you've accompanied our savant today," when they show up together at crime scenes. As if he'd do otherwise.

Not that Sherlock resents him for it, really. John's just being John all the time, and people can't help themselves. John is likable. John is pleasant, and polite, and a little mundane. People fall over themselves to chat with him, and Sherlock is getting used to it, albeit reluctantly.

He is not used to being invited along to the Yard's Christmas party, and not even as John's plus one. Lestrade had sent him an email that said, _Tomorrow night, my office, 8pm. Try to be festive._ John hadn't needed to tell him it was a party, but he'd told him anyway.

Which is why he's standing in the Scotland Yard office next to a bowl of crisps and a fake pine tree all lit up with fairy lights, watching John chat with Donovan, a plastic cup half-full of cider in his hand. John's hand, that is. Sherlock's own hands are jammed in his pockets, awkward now that everyone who texts him is here in the same room, Mycroft exempted. He's not wearing his coat, it having been taken from him at the door and stowed away in a corner somewhere, and he feels a little out of sorts.

He eyes the crowd. It's not a big crowd-- it's only the department's party, not the whole Yard-- and he recognizes most of the people. Most of the people recognize him, too, and they're giving him a comfortably wide berth.

There's music playing, irritating Christmas songs that make Sherlock grind his teeth whenever he hears them playing in the shops. He thinks everyone should have the decency to wait until December begins to start playing their stupid, repetitive music, but November rolls around every god damn year and it's jingle bells and reindeer and drummer boys all the bloody time. Sherlock doubts anyone else in this room has ever even seen a reindeer in the flesh, alive or dead.

Donovan touches John's arm, and Sherlock resists the urge to bare his teeth at her. She's just being nice, taken a fancy to John when he refused to give Sherlock up and started showing up on all the cases with him. She's got Anderson to keep her busy anyway, but not tonight, because Anderson's wife is here with him. She's mousy and petite and dislikes conflict, and Sherlock wants very much to tell her what's going on. But as John would remind him, this is not the season for that. Maybe in January, if he ever sees her again.

John's coming over now, having dragged himself away from Donovan's no doubt scintillating conversation, and he's looking a bit pink. Finished the cider, then.

"Hallo," he says. "Enjoying yourself, you and the Doritos?"

"Just fine," Sherlock lies, "thank you."

"We can go, if you want," John offers. He reaches out and tucks his forefinger in Sherlock's front pocket. Sherlock shies away, as gently as he can. The Yard doesn't need to know that John Watson's new hobby is fucking London's premier consulting detective through the mattress.

"It's all right," Sherlock says. "You're having a nice time?"

"Nice enough," John says. "Bit tipsy now."

"Obviously."

John grins. "Used to have some real tolerance in Uni," he says, pursing his lips. "Shame."

"Your sister turned you off it," Sherlock says, and instantly regrets it as John winces. It was just the truth, he didn't mean anything.

"Yeah," John says. "Guess so. Anyway. Oh, there's Nancy, I ought to wish her a happy Christmas." He almost touches Sherlock's hand and thinks better of it. "But really, say the word and we'll leave."

"Fine," Sherlock agrees.

"Be good," John warns, wagging a finger, and gives him a brilliant smile as he turns away.

Lestrade takes his place not two minutes later. "Didn't think you'd turn up," he says.

"John wanted to come," Sherlock admits.

Lestrade crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow, obviously inquiring as to why that has anything to do with it.

"He said I couldn't be trusted alone in the house with the gifts he'd bought."

"Ah," Lestrade says, smiling. He looks a little worn, probably by the time of year, the reminders. His divorce is only a year old and his kids are spending Christmas with their mum at her parents'. Lestrade hasn't told him this. "Well, good to see you, anyway."

Sherlock blinks.

Lestrade laughs, surprised and genuine. "What, you didn't think--? Well, you're wrong for once, Sherlock. I might not love you sending me a text when something's gone off, but I don't mind you popping in every once in a while. Especially when you've been invited."

"You need those texts," Sherlock protests, but he can't help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Lestrade leaves him alone again after a few minutes, and Sherlock scans the room once more for his blogger. He spots John with three cops and a detective, and his first horrible thought is that someone's slipped something into John's fresh drink. John is twisting and writhing and-- oh Christ, no.

Actually he's dancing. He's dancing like he grew up in the 50's and was transported by accident to the 70's. He's twisting his hips back and forth and swiveling his head, his cup in his left hand while his right hand waves back and forth in the air like he's trying to charm a snake. Sherlock can't quite see his feet, but he's fairly certain John is doing the twist. It is the opposite of attractive. It is entirely dodgy dancing.

And apparently, Sherlock finds dodgy dancing sexy.

John's dancing like he doesn't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks of him. He's loose-limbed and warm and happy, a smile on his face, his eyes closed. He doesn't quite match the music, and the girls are laughing at him, and he's just smiling his way through it. Sherlock bets he doesn't even hear them. He shimmies and bobs and turns in a circle, and Sherlock wants to have him right now. He wants that carefree attitude and that warm affection, and he wants it for himself. He wants to possess it, make John happy all the time. Wants to feel those hips twisting against his own as he fucks John-- where? There, unlocked office down the hall. Hopefully Anderson's, but he doubts he'll be that lucky.

He's halfway across the room before he knows it, and he's grabbing John's wrist. John's eyes fly open, startled.

"Sherlock," he says, and Sherlock wants to hear him shout his name, "what--?"

"Come with me," Sherlock growls, tugging, and John comes easily, stumbling a little, but following Sherlock unerringly like he always does.

"What's going on?" John asks as Sherlock pulls him into the darkened hallway. And then, "Oh, hello," when Sherlock pins him to the wall with his hands and his hips.

"You are the most absurd man," Sherlock says, ducking his head to bite at John's throat. John tips his head back and clutches at the back of Sherlock's jacket.

"Sherlock, jesus," he hisses. Sherlock presses his hips in hard, letting John feel his swelling erection, and John lets out a little groan. "You're mad."

"You have that effect on me," Sherlock says. He licks a stripe up John's neck and worries the corner of his jaw with his teeth. John's mouth falls open, back arching, and Sherlock pulls away to look him in the eye for a moment before falling upon him again, kissing him soundly. John tastes like cider, a little tangy, and Sherlock wants to count every tooth in his mouth, taste every inch of the inside of his cheeks.

John kisses back, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist, one hand still holding his cup. Sherlock presses him back harder, kisses rougher, and John takes everything, moaning his appreciation.

Sherlock opens the door behind him and John yelps as they fall through. Then he's being shoved up against the edge of the desk, sliding backwards onto it to sit at the level of Sherlock's hips. Sherlock's always been taller than his partners, few though they have been, but John never lets it get the better of him. Now he's spreading his knees and hauling Sherlock against his groin and Sherlock grinds into him, slow and deliberate.

"Gonna fuck me right here?" John breathes. John's a talker. Sherlock would have never guessed, but there are unexplored possibilities about John. Every day he's coming up with something new, and Sherlock is never bored with him. It's wonderful. Yesterday John tugged his jumper off over his head and Sherlock got a shockingly lovely view of the small of his back. Today he's a terrible dancer and Sherlock wants to shag him on a Met police desk.

Sherlock's going to shag him on the desk, too, in about four minutes if they aren't interrupted.

John pushes him away and shifts so he can get at his wallet in his back pocket. He throws it at Sherlock, who finds the condom folded in among the pounds sterling, and then tucks the wallet away in his own trousers. John gives him a brilliant grin, and he snogs it right off John's face. Smug bastard, prepared for something like this.

Sherlock drags him off the desk and turns him around. John goes immediately, elbows on the desk and his arse up. Sherlock cups him through his slacks, gives him a friendly squeeze, and John pushes into his hand and mutters something about getting on with it.

Well then. Sherlock unzips John's trousers and yanks them down around his knees. He's not wearing shorts, fuck him very much. Sherlock bites him on the arsecheek and John stifles another yelp in his forearm.

"Fuck you," he whispers. Sherlock ignores him, spreads him open with his thumbs, and licks him. John's a military man. He's very neat, and he's very clean. Sherlock was delighted to find this no exception, and coupled with the reaction he gets from John he finds this an exceedingly satisfactory practice. John squirms, and Sherlock rubs his fingers over the wet head of John's cock. John says, "Oh fuck, please Sherlock," and Sherlock goes back to licking him open, pressing his tongue against the tight opening to his body.

John says, "Ah, God, you're fucking crazy," and Sherlock can't take it as an insult, not when John says it, not in that voice. Not the one he uses when Sherlock says, "She's a ballet dancer, look at her calves," and John says, "Incredible."

Sherlock presses his fingers in alongside his tongue and wishes he'd had the foresight to bring something along. He hadn't had the data that would tell him John's attempt at rhythm would make him want to fuck him blind, and now he has to settle for opening John up with his mouth. John isn't objecting, though, whispering, "Oh god, your tongue, fuckin' made for this, did you know? Waste all that time being smart when you could be eating my-- oh jesus, do that again!" And when he puts it like that, Sherlock can't deny him, and presses the pads of two fingers against John's prostate again, rubbing the gland gently enough to make John bang his knee on the edge of the desk as he tries to spread himself wider.

"Fuck me," John demands as Sherlock slides a third finger into him. "Sherlock, please! Fuck me, oh God, fuck me. I'm fucking halfway sloshed and you're going to fuck me over a desk at Scotland Yard. What is my life?"

"Pretty damn good, I'd say," Sherlock says, pressing a kiss to the perfectly delightful small of his back, mouthing a little indulgently at the curve of his spine.

"God yes," John laughs, and Sherlock slides his fingers out to fumble open his trousers and the condom. He's usually so controlled, and John makes him lose it.

The touch of his hand on his cock is almost too much, and he moves quickly, rolling the condom down and pressing against John's backside. John hisses, "Yes," again as Sherlock pushes in, the tightness of his arse squeezing Sherlock mercilessly, perfectly. Sherlock slides in deep and bends to nip at the back of John's flushing neck. He's still wearing his jumper, although it's rucked up under his arms where Sherlock's pushed it out of the way, and Sherlock has to shove the collar aside to get his mouth on John's skin.

He rolls his hips against John's arse, rocking into him, and John moans and reaches back to slide his fingers into Sherlock's hair. He grips hard as Sherlock fucks him shallowly, and turns his head just enough that Sherlock can kiss his mouth.

The door opens behind them, and Sherlock pulls away, straightening up to say, "Fuck off, thanks." There is an indignant, feminine squeak, and the door clicks shut again. Sherlock's voice might be unmistakable, he thinks, but at least he hasn't betrayed his partner.

Not that John's disappearance will go unnoticed, nor the fresh hickey that is not-quite-hidden on John's neck. Nor the way he looks after he's been well and truly fucked, all flushed and addled with irrelevantly smug pleasure.

But John puts his forehead on the desk and starts to laugh, shaking with it, and Sherlock snaps his hips forwards harder, driving into him. John pushes back, arching his back, and says, "Yeah, that's right," as if Sherlock needs any coaching. Everything that John says in bed is completely outrageous, but Sherlock has found he doesn't mind it. It pleases him to think that John's lost control of his brain-to-mouth filter, like he does when Sherlock is particularly clever on a case, and so sometimes he even encourages it.

"Just like that?" he murmurs, sliding one hand up John's sweat-damp lower back. "Tell me, John. Tell me how you want it."

"Hard," John gasps, trying to get some purchase on the desk and sending a cup of pencils scattering across the floor. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Sherlock always means it. He grabs hold of John's shoulder under his shirt and jumper and pulls him backwards into his thrusts, driving hard and deep into John's body. John's squirming, hands slipping, and he obviously can't decide whether or not he should risk hitting his face on the desk if he wants to jerk himself off.

Making the decision for him, Sherlock lifts him bodily off the desk and holds John across the chest with his forearm. It changes the angle of his fucking significantly, in ways that are proven to succeed. John groans and tips his head back against Sherlock's shoulder, his thighs braced against the desk and his hand sliding to curl around his cock. He's still clothed from the knees down and the chest up, and Sherlock finds their not-quite-skin-to-skin delicious. The buttons of his shirt are digging into John's back, his jacket is too hot, and his trousers will need to be cleaned, but John is wonderful like this, and nothing will stop Sherlock now.

John's jerking himself off hard and fast, his other hand on the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock bites him on the shoulder, inhales sharply and smells sweat and detergent and cider and whatever indefinable scent underneath that is John himself. John's trembling, panting, adding the twist to the end of his strokes that rubs his fingers over the fat head of his cock, and Sherlock can practically count down to his orgasm.

John makes an absolute mess of the desk when he comes, shaking and biting back a shout, spurting through his fingers. Sherlock hardly allows him to recover before he's pushing him face-down again on the desk and grabbing hold of his hips. He fucks John in short, sharp thrusts, and comes with John's name sweet and simple in his mouth.

The back of John's neck looks terrible, covered in little red bruises and the ring-marks of Sherlock's teeth. John's baring it as he rests on his elbows on the desk, panting and laughing, raking his fingers through his sandy-coloured hair. Then he's pushing Sherlock off and pulling up his trousers and cursing under his breath at the smears of come on the desk. He grabs a fistful of tissues as Sherlock stumbles backwards, loose with pleasure, and wipes up the mess while Sherlock disposes of the condom and puts himself back together.

Sherlock sags against the closed door and John slots himself neatly between Sherlock's legs, pressing kisses to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock feels slow and stupid, distracted by John's hips against his own and John's fingers in his hair, and he kisses back and holds John to him, fisting the back of John's sweater in his hands.

"I'll take you home now," Sherlock says, and manages to turn it into a suggestion rather than an order at the last moment, tacking on, "shall I?"

"Mmm," John agrees, nodding lazily. He rubs the back of his neck, wincing, and then he grins. "Please do."

Sherlock opens the door and ushers John out, and looks up at John's little squeak of surprise to find half the office with their eyebrows raised expectantly in their direction. Sherlock smirks, his ownership clear as day in John's pink face and well-marked neck, his no doubt too-loud cries and state of disarray. He puts his hand on the small of John's back and maneuvers him in close, and John's tipsy enough to lift his chin and give Donovan a cheeky wink.

In the morning, he will be absolutely livid that Sherlock seduced him like this, will be scarlet with embarrassment, and will swear up and down that he will never be able to look another member of the Yard in the eye. But then Sherlock will get a text and he'll sweep out of the flat with barely a word of warning, and John will be right behind him. They'll arrive at the scene together, and Sherlock will allow himself to touch John's elbow as he asks him to look at the body, and no one will mention it.

So now Sherlock raises his eyebrows right back, helps John into his coat, and says goodnight to Lestrade. Lestrade tries to tell him whose desk it was they just defiled, and Sherlock ignores him, misses the name, and bundles John neatly into a taxi.

John puts his head on Sherlock's shoulder, drowsy with alcohol and sex, and Sherlock has one more thing to be surprised about. John's dodgy dancing was sexy, and now his shows of affection are charming. Sherlock wants to press a kiss to his temple and put him to bed, of all things.

So he does.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Three Minor Details (Some People Find Dodgy Dancing Sexy)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/299388) by [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo)
  * [[Podfic] Some People Find Dodgy Dancing Sexy - by Mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3746227) by [Podphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podphile/pseuds/Podphile)




End file.
